


Things That Matter

by bennytenten



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Evgeni Malkin is an introvert, Getting Together, M/M, Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennytenten/pseuds/bennytenten
Summary: He was feeling content and comforted, at ease and delighted. Nothing new around Sid.





	Things That Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pr_scatterbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/gifts).



> For the 2019 Sid/Geno Exchange. pr_scatterbrain, I hope you enjoy this! I latched on to your mention of the olympics and friends to lovers <3
> 
> (this is the [theme song](https://soundcloud.com/anjunadeep/tomas-barfod-ft-louise-foo-sharin-foo-things-that-matter-jody-wisternoff-james-grant-remix), lol)

Zhenya was staring at the Pens decal on the tiled wall in the showers. He had the water turned too hot. He closed his eyes for a long moment, gathering the will to move his hand to turn off the water. He had played through an overtime loss to the Rangers, zoned out through some brief words from Bylsma (good effort out there; this didn’t go the way we wanted but we’re playing the right way; take the day tomorrow to recover; I believe in this group; keep believing in this team) and carefully contorted and stretched his body for a few minutes, following his trainer-prescribed post-game routine. All he had to do was turn off the water, dry off, get dressed, drive home, take out his contacts, and get into bed. No problem. 

He stood more or less motionless for a few more minutes, his mind racing, replaying moments from a few of his shifts during the game. He was one of the last few guys still in there. 

“Genoooooo,” Jordy said lowly as Zhenya shuffled his way into the change room. Sid was sitting in his underwear, talking quietly with Flower as Flower reached into a lazy stretch on the floor a ways in front of Sid’s stall. 

Zhenya barely had the energy to walk; he didn’t currently have the willpower or motivation to stop himself from absent-mindedly checking Sid out. 

“What!” Flower yelled, grinning, delighted by whatever turn Sid’s story just took. Sid’s hair was curling, his smile was growing and his eyebrows were climbing up his forehead as he continued whatever story Zhenya heard him start in the showers. Sid had played so well tonight. 

Zhenya sat down, watched Sid’s pale bicep flex a little as he gestured with his hand. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Another break before he dragged himself the rest of the way home. 

\---

The next day Zhenya drove over to Mario’s house, talking Sid up on his team-wide invite sent out the night before ( **off day tomorrow, and I’ve got the place to myself. Everyone’s welcome to come over around 3** ). Zhenya glanced at the temperature displayed on his dashboard and turned up his seat warmer. It was overcast; a few snowflakes were starting to fall. 

He was leaving for Vancouver in two days. 

It was just another tournament. Zhenya had played under pressure before, he’d thrived under pressure, used pressure to make better plays, score goals, to win. This was just another tournament. Normal. 

However nervous he was feeling, Sid had to be feeling worse. Zhenya stared at the road without seeing and tried to imagine the weight of his own expectations multiplied by the pressure of playing in your home country. Actually, Sid probably loved it, he probably couldn’t wait. Zhenya daydreamed about high seeds, meeting Canada late in the bracket. Each matchup with different and higher stakes than their mid-season NHL games. Competitive versus cooperative play. And there it was, he was thinking about Sid again. 

His crush on Sid was nothing new. It was a low-key and soothingly consistent presence in Zhenya’s life. His Olympic expectations had to be restrained to a level that was neutral, healthy. It was just another tournament. Easy. His excitement and nerves would be no help to his hockey—you couldn’t play out of your mind if you couldn’t get out of your head in the first place. It was much more entertaining these days to think about Sid, to feel excited about spending time with him this evening, to think about the few text messages they had sent to each other last night. 

( **Im bring vodka ))**

****

****

**one shot limit for me G. See you tomorrow, sleep well**

Funny, matter of fact. He could hear Sid’s voice—friendly, a little laughter in it. He could imagine Sid’s wry smile.) 

It was just something to think about. Who wouldn’t feel this way after playing with Sid for so long, watching him work so hard, winning and losing with him for so many years. Zhenya didn’t blame himself. Watching Sid smirk and scowl, listening to him run his mouth on the bench. Zhenya would never act on it. Sid wouldn’t be interested, it would be bad for the room, any attempt to show his interest would be mortifying. Zhenya needed to put the possibility behind him. He wouldn’t act on it. It was fine. 

He walked up the driveway, into the house, and headed to the basement, following the sound of yelling and laughter. Nealer chanted “G, G, G, G” as Zhenya made his way down the stairs, pounding his fists on the card table. 

Sid was sitting at the card table, watching Zhenya’s descent. He was loosely holding a can of beer, his eyes were dark and curved in a smile. Sid started laughing as Talbo made his entrance down the stairs behind Zhenya, playing at trying to conceal the 30-rack he was carrying and whisper-yelling, “Sid, siddo, are you sure Mario isn’t home?” 

Sid looked comfortable and pleased, happy to be facilitating some bonding, happy to be surrounded by his team. Zhenya drew Sid’s hood up to cover his head and tugged on the strings a little. 

“G, hey, glad you made it,” Sid said, smiling and pushing his hood off again, fluffing up his hair in the process. Zhenya was glad, too. 

The night was relaxed, funny. Zhenya was penalizing the guys with baby sips of vodka when they did something annoying, like playing a really good hand. Flower was the most recent victim, and he was still looking smug with success. 

It was a smallish group that made it to Sid’s, and Sid was right—Zhenya looked around the table, grinning at Flower trying desperately to control his facial expression as he looked at the hand Tanger just dealt—it felt good to be with them before the break, to be reminded that his team would be here, still be his in two weeks, whatever happened in Vancouver. 

“Egregious!” Jordy yelled, and threw his hand at Flower. The cards smacked him on the chest and fluttered into his lap. Flower’s third win in a row, and Jordy just caught him slipping a hidden card from under his thigh to his hand. 

Tanger threw his hand down on the table. “Flower, you devil!” He yelled, grinning. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Things devolved from there with mock and genuine disgust. Sid made his way over to Zhenya as the rest of the guys piled on, laughing as Flower started defending himself in French. 

“G, I have to tell you. I saw Flower hide that card a long time ago.” Sid’s expression was calm. His cheeks were so pink. 

Zhenya ghasped dramatically and grinned as Sid broke out into a smile, reached for his bottle of vodka on the table. “Accomplice!” he said in Russian. “And you have no remorse. Shameful. That’s a shot, Crosby.” 

“Augh, Geno, no,” Sid was laughing. Zhenya poured what was probably not even half of a shot into a glass sitting nearby. “Well, okay,” Sid said. “You’re saying this is the price I pay, right? I guess I deserve it.” 

Sid tipped the glass back, closing his eyes as he downed the vodka. He looked back at Zhenya, making the most ridiculous disgusted face. Zhenya laughed, leaned his shoulder against Sid’s for a moment. He was feeling content and comforted, at ease and delighted. Nothing new around Sid.

“Good job, Sid,” he said. Sid rolled his eyes. 

Sid’s arms were crossed, he was watching the commotion around the card table. Jordy was attempting to challenge Flower to some sort of wrestling match, Talbo was egging them on. Tanger beckoned Sid over to join him at the table again. Sid glanced at Zhenya and went, tipping his beer back to drink as he walked. 

When Zhenya was younger, when he played for Magnitogorsk, he’d had a crush on a teammate. It wasn’t anything as long-lasting and rock-solid as his crush on Sid, but it was something he thought about a lot, then. Fedya was their backup goalie, and one of his good friends. He was hilarious and so handsome, and always laughed at Zhenya’s jokes. When they were hanging out, at practice or after dinner at Zhenya’s, Zhenya would smile and laugh with Fedya and want him, listening to him jokingly describe the latest drama in his life. 

He wished that he could have known if it was even a possibility—the thought of doing anything about it, asking, was humiliating and terrible. What would he even say? “Fedya, do you ever-” “Fedya, I’ve been wanting to tell you-” No way. Absolutely not. 

So he never initiated anything, never tried to bring any one of his carefully constructed daydreams into his real life. It was impossible, it would have been reckless. But he was older now. He had more experience, he knew how these things could go.

Maybe he could act on it. Maybe he could try. Sid might be—well, he probably wouldn’t be. But he might be. And Sid was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people Zhenya knew. He probably wouldn’t take it badly. And then Zhenya would know, either way, and he could stop thinking about it all the time. 

And with that latest missive from the Malkin brain trust it was probably time to take a break from the card table, from the warm, loud basement, and from English. Zhenya made his way up the stairs, to where it was empty and beginning to get dark. He flipped on a light, walked through the still kitchen and slid open the glass door leading to the backyard deck. He quickly slid the door shut behind him and took a few steps out onto the deck. The cold air was an ice bath for his overheated, overworked brain. 

The oppressive grey from his drive over had darkened a bit, but there was still daylight. Zhenya took a deep breath and coughed a bit, watched his breath steam in front of him. It was so still and quiet out here. The snow in Mario’s backyard was trampled with footprints, a little muddy in spots. 

A few minutes later he heard the glass door open behind him and startled, a little. It was Sid, closing the door and turning to join him. Zhenya raised his eyebrows, leaned against the railing. Played it cool. 

After they won the Cup last year Zhenya had felt like he could do anything, like he could have anything he wanted. Crying tears of happiness on the ice, watching the line of Sid’s throat as he tilted his head back to press his mouth to the Cup. Feeling like he couldn’t stop smiling, like he was going to float away into the rafters. 

His memories of the celebration that night and the days after were cherished and well-worn. The feeling didn’t last. But in the months since last spring, sometimes when he looked at Sid he felt like he was back on the ice, his childhood dreams coming true. 

Sid crunched his away across some snow on the deck that hadn’t been shoveled yet. He nodded towards the grey, darkening sky, “Pretty, eh?” 

Zhenya rolled his eyes and Sid laughed a little at his own joke. It kind of was pretty, though. A few flakes were still falling. 

“Things okay out here, G?” 

“Okay,” Zhenya said. He exaggerates pulling at the collar of his sweatshirt: “Hot. Just take break.” 

“Yeah,” Sid said. He twisted his mouth in a half smile, looked down into the yard. 

Sid’s eyebrows were drawn together a little, he looked worried, still not looking at Zhenya. “Leave in two days,” Zhenya said slowly, guessing. Maybe Sid had been suffering from the same nervous tournament daydreams as Zhenya. Sid probably thought of it as visualizing future success.

He seemed to shake it off, turned to grin at Zhenya. “Only for a few weeks, though, eh? I’m, uh,” he paused for a moment, crossed his arms. “I’m a little nervous. But mostly excited. Canada’s gonna be real tough to beat. See you in the finals, right G?”

Zhenya smiled back. “Right. Good luck, Sid, you need.” He felt comforted that Sid was apparently feeling so lighthearted and positive about the tournament. It was going to be fine. They would both play as hard as they could. 

Sid huffed a laugh. “Thanks. You too. You’re gonna play great. It’ll be a little weird to wear a different jersey. And to see you in a different one, I guess. I’m not too excited to be on a different team, for a while.” Zhenya felt his affection for Sid expand within him, warm and unignorable. He thought for a moment about how to reciprocate Sid’s honesty but quickly gave up. He had come out here to take a break from English. 

“I’m feeling nervous too,” Zhenya said in Russain. “I can’t stop trying to imagine what it’s going to be like. I want to win gold, of course, but I also feel like I want to specifically win gold against you. I want to impress you as an opponent. The pressure feels ramped up in a strange way. And thinking about it all the time certainly isn’t helping. I admire how laid back you seem about playing in the Olympics. Because I think that you must be feeling a similar or even greater pressure. It feels worse than when we’re facing pressure together, on the same team. Pressure isn’t bad, objectively. But this time it’s really weighing on me. And the media! Sid, the reporters have been so annoying. I did a phone interview with a Russian magazine the other day that was complete torture.” Zhenya cut himself off. 

Even that wasn’t quite right, didn’t really get to the heart of what he had been feeling about Vancouver and Team Russia. It didn’t matter—Sid, of course, couldn’t understand anything of what he just said. 

Sid was smiling at him, mostly with his eyes. “Oh man, G. I really need to learn Russian, huh?” 

“Sorry, Sid,” Zhenya said, still in Russian. He was being a little rude, but also Sid was sometimes amused by him when he completely gave up on English. “Yes, you should learn some Russian. English is terrible and so difficult to express oneself in accurately. I honestly don’t know how anyone does it. And available vocabulary aside, sonically, it’s no good.” 

“Hm... heard and acknowledged. I understand and agree completely,” Sid said seriously. 

Zhenya laughed a little. “Sorry,” he said again, this time in English. “I’m little nervous, too.” What a tragically vague and small offering. Oh well, it was close enough. 

Sid nodded and looked back down at the yard. He glanced back at him, took a deep breath. Geno saw his hands tighten for a moment on the wooden railing. Another deep breath. “Listen, Geno— I, uh—” 

Zhenya’s heartbeat picked up. What was going on here? Did Sid have some other pronouncement to share? He turned more fully towards Sid, leaning his hip against the railing, slouching a little to bring himself down closer to Sid’s height. 

Sid turned to face him, too, took another deep breath that was so shaky on its way out. 

“Sid, what?” Zhenya said quietly. The breath that fogged out was a temporary cloud between them. Zhenya’s heart was beating so hard. What on earth was going on. It didn’t seem like it was Vancouver that Sid was worried about, before. Did Sid know, somehow? Did he come out here to stutter his way through letting Zhenya know he wasn’t interested? 

“You know, I, uh—” Sid tried again. 

He took a half step forward, reached out and placed his hand on Zhenya’s waist. Zhenya held his breath. And then, so slowly, Sid leaned up and pressed his mouth to Zhenya’s. His eyes were closed and Zhenya kept his open, watched Sid reach up to kiss him and then draw back. Sid’s eyes were wide. His lips had felt really soft. 

Was Zhenya hallucinating from the few swallows of shitty beer he’d had inside? Was Sid completely trashed from the single beer and sip of vodka Zhenya had seen him finish? 

Sid was peering at his face, red cheeks, red nose, smiling a little, now. Zhenya took in the hopeful expression on Sid’s face and told himself to shut up, tried to will his wild heart rate to lower. He smiled back, grinning too big and probably looking slightly deranged, and leaned in to kiss Sid again, felt Sid’s cold nose on his face, cupped Sid’s jaw with his shaking hands. 

Zhenya shuffled towards Sid a little, pressing his mouth to Sid’s again and again. Sid’s hand on his waist tightened, and he brought the other one up to wrap around Zhenya, pulled him in even closer. The tips of Zhenya’s fingers were starting to go numb. He couldn’t believe how good this was. Was he actually asleep? Did the shitty beer knock him unconscious and give him a hyper-realistic dream? 

Sid sighed, kissed him again. He took a deep breath. “Geno,” he said quietly. He reached up to press his lips to Zhenya’s cheek. “I can’t believe I did that. I really didn’t know if you-” 

There was a loud crash from inside—they startled and broke apart. It was quickly getting dark outside, and Zhenya could see clearly into the lit kitchen where Flower was still kneeling on a counter, reaching up to a high shelf. 

Sid blew out a breath and took a step back. “Sorry. Let’s, uh— let’s talk soon, I guess.” Sid glanced up at Zhenya, giving him an unreadable look. 

“Okay,” Zhenya said. Yeah, what a suggestion. Let’s talk soon, I guess. Zhenya wanted to talk now, he felt desperate to know what Sid was thinking. He wanted to tell Sid how many times he had imagined this happening in the past, how happy and incredulous he felt now. But the moment was ending. Sid reached out to squeeze Zhenya’s hand for a brief moment and headed in to the kitchen. 

“Sid!” he could hear Flower holler. “It’s freezing outside, what are you doing. Help me get this bowl down. I’m trying hard but really not doing that well, mon ami.” 

Zhenya covered his eyes with a hand for a moment, took a deep breath, and followed Sid inside. 

\---

If he had known that something was going to happen with Sid, Zhenya would have guessed that it would have been after the Cup last year. They were trashed out of their minds for days, and together all the time. The affection and attraction that he felt towards Sid felt like it heated and expanded every time they shared a look or a smile, threatening to burst out of him. Instead, Sid had kissed him almost a year later, on a cold, overcast Tuesday, careful and sober. 

They hadn’t been alone again that night; in fact, it had seemed like Sid was avoiding him a little. Which, to put it lightly, was extremely noticeable and stressful for Zhenya. And now the next evening he was standing in the warmup circle, trying to keep his eye on the ball. He really needed to talk to Sid. The literal kiss of his dreams couldn’t go unacknowledged and unrepeated. He had felt so happy yesterday evening, freezing his ass off on the Lemieux backyard deck, watching a few snowflakes land in Sid’s hair. 

What on earth. Sid had _kissed_ him. 

He was trying so hard to keep his creeping despair at bay, or to at least stop himself from thinking about it constantly, wondering furiously what was going to happen next. He hoped so much that Sid didn’t feel any regret, that he saw a way forward for them. Right now, though, after no communication that night and the next day, that didn’t seem all that likely. Zhenya absolutely did not want to be the one to reach out first and break their uneasy standstill. 

“Geno!” Nealer shrieked, “Comin’ in hot!” Zhenya didn’t attempt to return the ball that came flying towards his head, just ducked and let it sail away behind him. He shot back up from his defensive crouch. “Nealsy, you clown,” he said in Russian. 

“G! Haven’t heard that one before, I don’t think,” Kuni said. “Teach us!” Zhenya laughed a little and ignored him. 

“Nealer, you fucked up,” Jordy yelled. “Winners and learners, boys. I got it.” He jogged down the hallway to retrieve the ball. Sid had left the warmup circle a few minutes ago, moving on to the next portion of his pre-game routine. Flower had been giving him looks all evening. Also noticeable, also stressful. 

Zhenya was starting to feel glad for the Olympic break—his flight tomorrow morning was mere hours away. The stress he was feeling about Sid was far away from the usual comfort and familiarity he felt around his team. He needed a break, he needed to talk to someone about this who would empathize and understand exactly what he was saying. But of course he couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. 

It was another slog of a game, over, finally and depressingly, after a shootout loss. Sid had fought hard every minute he was on the ice. Zhenya went through his post-game routine quickly, this time, didn’t linger in the showers. He was exhausted and emotionally vulnerable—after trying and failing to catch Sid’s eye a few times in the room afterwards, in the few moments they had before the media came pouring in, he realized that he was, humiliatingly, almost on the verge of tears. He watched Sid shove a baseball cap on his head to cover his hair, dark and wet and curling, a little. He had to get out of there. 

“Geno!” Flower was walking quickly to catch up with him in the parking lot. “G, wait up a minute, please.” Oh god. Did Flower know? Did everyone? 

“G, hey,” Flower said. He was peering up at Zhenya’s face. 

“Flower,” Zhenya sighed. “Hi.” It was so late, and starting to snow a little, again. Flower was cast in orange from the street light nearby. 

“Geno, I, uh, I think I saw you and Sid yesterday, from inside. I’m not sure what I saw. Are you okay? If you need a friend to talk to, I’m here, G. I just wanted to let you know that it’s okay. You seem really down tonight.” Flower spoke quietly and slowly. His words fogged out in front of him—they were clearly chosen with care. 

Zhenya felt himself starting to tear up again. Good god. He was 23, too old for this by far. Flower was a good friend. He let out a huge breath. He really didn’t know how much was okay to say, or how much about what had happened he even wanted to share. It was probably nothing, it really didn’t look like anything was going to come of it. Had Sid talked to Flower already? Was Sid anxious to keep his momentary lapse in sanity a secret? Probably. 

“Uh, I don’t, uh.” Zhenya paused, tried again. “Thanks, Flower. It’s okay. I’m not know if, uh,” Okay, that attempt wasn’t that much better. This was so hard to talk about. “Please forget about. I’m okay.” 

Flower reached up to squeeze Zhenya’s arm. “Alright. Good night, my friend. Maybe see you in Vancouver.” 

“Night, Flower. Ah, thanks. See you.” If only Flower could speak Russian, or Zhenya could speak French. He didn’t trust his English to be up to the formidable task of spilling his guts, communicating just how tumultuous his feelings were about what had happened with Sid and just how important it was to Zhenya that Flower said anything to him about it in the first place. 

Whatever happened or didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He had good friends and a good life. Sid was a good friend and a good captain, the best. He got to play hockey almost every day, with a team that he loved. His personal life wasn’t the slow, tragic disaster or non-event that he had been describing to himself in the back of his mind all evening. What an unreasonable amount of internal drama over a brief kiss, not even a few minutes of his life. It was going to be fine. 

Finally, Zhenya went home. He fell asleep right away, and didn’t remember any dreams the next day. 

\---

Things didn’t seem so dire in the morning. His emotional assurances to himself last night became more real after a night of sleep—things really were going to be okay. Zhenya was sitting at their gate in the airport, reading an old science fiction book that he had loved when he was younger. Seryozha was sitting nearby, his reading glasses perched on his nose, picking away at his laptop. 

There were five of them leaving for Vancouver, all on the same flight: himself, Gonchar, Flower, Brooks, and Sid. He looked up to see Brooks walking towards them. Sid and Flower hadn’t arrived yet—but that was fine, it was still early, their flight wasn’t boarding for another half hour or so.

“Geno! My G. You pumped?” Brooks came up to give Zhenya a fist pump. “I’m pumped. Morning, Gonch. Whatcha workin on?” 

Zhenya returned to his book—it was good, just as good as he remembered, but he was also experiencing some pretty strong déjà vu. He felt transported back many years to when he was a young teenager, reading this book for the first time. His old adolescent thoughts and concerns were made strangely accessible and real. It wasn’t necessarily an entirely enjoyable sensation. Zhenya was struck by how drastically his internal landscape had seemed to change since back then—it was like seeing into the heart of an uncomfortably familiar stranger. Well, that was getting older. He would probably experience this kind of thing for the rest of his life.

Zhenya startled, feeling a light touch on his shoulder. “Geno, hey,” Sid said, withdrawing his hand and reaching up to adjust the lid of his black cap. His dark hair was curling out around the edges. Sid’s eyes were bright and smiling. Zhenya had been so immersed that he hadn’t noticed Sid’s arrival. 

“Hi, Sid. Good morning.” Zhenya was so relieved to see Sid sitting next to him, holding out a cup of coffee for Zhenya to take. “Kind of a late one last night, eh?” Sid said. Zhenya tried to control his facial expression, to tone down his grin. He was in public. 

Zhenya looked away to the row of seats opposite. Flower was there now, too, with a toque shoved over his head, almost covering his eyes. He looked up to raise his eyebrows and smile at Zhenya. 

Zhenya took a slurp of his coffee and turned back towards Sid. Zhenya was calm, he was self-actualized, he was ready for anything. 

“G, uh,” Sid started quietly. “Sorry. I was pretty freaked out after the other day. I wanted to talk but I kept talking myself out of it. I was really freaked out.” 

Sid was blushing so hard. The gate was pretty loud, and they were in a semi-secluded pocket surrounded by a few empty chairs. But they were in public. Zhenya felt hope rise within him, as if he had never resignedly stamped it down in the first place.

“Sid, it’s okay,” he said. “We talk soon. I’m want.” Zhenya tried to communicate with his look alone, hoping that Sid could sense his hope that had to be leaking out, by now. He pressed his lips to the plastic coffee lid for a moment, holding Sid’s eyes. “Thanks for coffee.” 

Sid smiled, and reached out to punch Zhenya’s arm, gently. He left his fist pushing into Zhenya’s shoulder for a few sweet moments. 

It was a long flight. Zhenya read through most of it, and spoke with Seryozha about Team Russia’s Olympic roster and coaching staff for the rest of it. He and Sid hadn’t had the chance to say much else—their flight began boarding soon after he and Flower had arrived. And they hadn’t sat next to each other. Sid was next to Flower near the front of the plane. Which was normal. And fine. Talk soon, Zhenya had said, repeating Sid’s words from a few days ago on the Lemieux’s backyard deck. But when? They would be cloistered for the entire tournament, surrounded by their respective teams. Two weeks was a long time. Too long to stew in his confused thoughts on the matter, vacillating endlessly between hope and despair. 

On a more pleasant note, Zhenya’s nerves about the tournament were at an all time low. A beautiful, healthy neutral. What a concept. He was going to work hard every game, he was going to help his team to win. Maybe they wouldn’t meet Canada until late in the bracket, maybe not until the finals. Maybe Sid would be knocked out of the tournament early, and would come to watch all of Zhenya’s games. That sounded extremely likely. Another genius grant-worthy winner. Zhneya closed his book, tipped his head back, and tried to stop thinking for a little while. 

\---

Zhenya rose to the pressure. They cruised through round robin play, and were seeded 3rd going into the bracket. Canada was seeded 6th. Not quite the one-two seeding assignments of Zhenya’s daydreams. If Canada won their first game in the bracket against Germany, which they definitely would, he would be playing Sid much sooner than he had hoped, in the quarter-finals. That game was in two days, and thinking about it for too long put Zhenya in a state of excited, jittery nervousness that felt out of control and unprecedented. 

Zhenya’s time in Vancouver had been filled with pre- and post-game routines, modified and sometimes strange around a new team, the games themselves, practice, rest, and spectating other matchups. He hadn’t really been alone, away from Team Russia since they arrived in Vancouver. When they happened to be passing through the arena at the same time as Canada’s practice, yesterday, he couldn’t pass up a detour to visit the bench. 

Sid was there, smiling, waiting for him. It was so good to see him again. “Geno, hey!” Sid squeezed a water bottle into his mouth and onto the back of his neck. “Checking out the competition?” Sid knew, too—they would definitely be playing each other soon, two days from now. 

They had texted, some, since their brief conversation before their flight from Pittsburgh. **Two huge wins, off to a good start!** from Sid after they both decisively won their first games of round robin play. Geno had sent Sid mostly pictures: some cafeteria meals, the view from his dorm room window, a shot of Sasha Ovechkin modeling some Team Russia swag. That last one got just an **ugh** from Sid. 

Zhenya wasn’t in the mood for lighthearted chirping about their hypothetical future matchup; he wasn’t in the mood for anything lighthearted at all, really. He felt desperate to get Sid alone. That didn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon.

“Sid!” he grinned, stuffed his hands in his tracksuit pockets. “Hi. Not need, Russia fine. You scared, maybe. Just want to say hi.” It was weird seeing Sid in that bright red jersey. At least they were both still in the same color palette. Zhenya internally rolled his eyes at himself. 

Sid was chatting away, taking about… what. The larger rink size? Something about the ice here. Zhenya watched Sid gesturing out to the ice, smiling and looking so at ease. He felt his grin grow, and hoped he didn’t look as completely bespotted as he felt. Things were still so uncertain between them. Zhenya knew what he hoped for, but still didn’t have any real idea of what Sid wanted. If he wanted anything at all. Well, now wasn’t the time to become tangled in those thoughts—Zhenya really needed to focus on playing. Muscle memory and routine could only get him so far—his mental strength couldn’t waver. And whatever happened in the tournament, and after that, Sid was his friend right now. That was something to hold onto. 

Sasha came over to call him away, letting Zhenya know that the team was heading out. “Sid, good luck,” Zhenya said, trying to convey with his words and his facial expression how sincerely he meant it. 

Sid stood up, waddled over in his skates a bit closer to where Zhenya was leaning in the bench doorway. “Good luck, G.” He met Zhenya’s eyes, and lightly tapped Zhenya’s calf with his stick. “Play hard. See you out there.” 

\---

Despite his preoccupation with this ambiguous, perhaps life-altering and amazing or perhaps depressingly non-eventful _thing_ going on with Sid, being with Team Russia, surrounded by his countrymen who spoke his language was so good. And Team Russia—they were good. Zhenya wanted them to go all the way, to win gold, and he thought that this group of players absolutely would. 

“Zhenya, earth to my dear, sweet Zhenya,” Sasha said. “What are you thinking about? You need to stop daydreaming about the goals I scored in practice and begin visualizing your own.” 

Sid, he was thinking about Sid. He was reliving those few minutes outside with Sid in the Lemieux’s backyard. Even though he was surrounded by Russain, now, and surrounded by people who could perfectly comprehend anything and everything he might wish to say, he couldn’t talk about this. Not in Russian, not in English. He wouldn’t know how to talk about it in any language, really. 

“Shasha Ovechkin,” he said, “my sweet, you’re right, I’m thinking about your goals from practice. It’s a delicate situation, trying to figure out how to tactfully let you know that they were absolute garbage.” 

Time passed, one moment after another, as Zhenya half willed it to slow and half wished it would speed up. Finally their game against Canada had arrived. Zhenya played hard, they all did, but they lost. They lost badly, 3 to 7. 

After sixty minutes of play Zhenya’s reality was far away, now, from his meticulously crafted, often revisited daydreams of Olympic glory. Their place in the tournament was gone. They were a smallish speed bump on the road paved to Canada’s victory. Because Canada was definitely going to win. Them, or the United States. But probably Canada. In the history books, on the page devoted to the 2010 Vancouver Olympics Men’s Ice Hockey, Team Russia would be a footnote in the paragraph about Canada’s tournament, typed in a font size so small that it would require a large magnifying glass to decipher. 

Okay, that was dramatic. And self-pitying, and not really productive. But kind of funny—maybe Zhenya would tell Sid about it later. He definitely wouldn’t tell any of his teammates, here. He looked around the locker room, saw men hunched over, looking at the ground, covering their eyes with their hands. Maybe it wasn’t that funny. Zhenya had only recently stopped crying. This was high-stakes, single-elimination play, and they hadn’t survived. It was depressing and devastating. And embarrassing. Okay, that wasn’t a productive line of thought, either. Zhenya slapped Sasha Semin on the back, who was sitting next to him zoned out and staring at the floor, and heaved himself up to begin the long process of getting ready to leave the arena. 

\---

Zhenya was back in his dorm room, resting, reading again. The game had started in the late afternoon, and it was getting late. Most of the team had left the dorms to drink and commiserate together, but that didn’t sound at all appealing to Zhenya—his mood had settled into something dark and prickly, and he couldn’t tune out or even dampen his increasingly negative thoughts. He didn’t want to inadvertently drag any of his teammates down with him. 

It was dark outside. The shades were drawn, the lamp in his dorm room was lit. He was lying pretty much fully horizontal, holding his book in front of his propped-up head. He picked up his phone, again. He didn’t expect to hear from Sid but he hoped to. Finally, there on his screen, was a message from him: **Hey, can I see you? Where are you?**

In other circumstances Zhenya would have maybe resented Sid reaching out like this after his team had so thoroughly beat Zhenya’s. But now, his heart began beating hard, and he immediately responded, **yes in dorm. Radulov gone.**

He gave Sid his room number, got up to unlock the door, and wondered how Sid would even get in the building in the first place. He would tell Zhenya if there was a problem getting here. What was going to happen? Zhenya was happy for Sid, but that didn’t necessarily outweigh his own frustration and pain. Only a few hours had passed since the game’s final period. He wanted to be able to stop thinking about it, circling around possible scenarios and conversations endlessly. Wishing that the game had gone the other way, or that it had at least been a little closer. 

He picked his book back up and tried to read. He was still experiencing that strange déjà vu as he read. Zhenya wished that he could temporarily transport back to when he was reading this book for the first time, to take a short break from the complicated anguish he was feeling now. Actually, no, that sounded terrible. There was no way on God’s earth that we would ever want to be a teenager again. 

Maybe 20 minutes later, he heard a light knock on the door. Zhenya called out, a little hoarse, “Is open.” 

Sid opened the door and peeked his head in, taking stock, before fully entering the room and closing the door behind him. 

“Hey, Sid,” Zhenya said. He didn’t move from his sad sprawl on the bed, lying on top of the covers. 

“Hey, G,” Sid said. He was wearing sweatpants and a gray quarter-zip that looked worn and soft. His hair was curling, and his eyes were curved in the suggestion of a smile. “Hey. Thanks for letting me know where you were. How’re you doing, bud?” 

Zhenya sighed, loud and long. “It’s not good, Sid,” he said. He looked back at his book and put it face-down, still open to the page he was on, to rest on his chest. 

Sid blew out a breath. “Oh, G. You played really well. I’m sorry.” He came closer, until he was standing right at Zhenya’s bedside, looking down at him. Zhenya scowled for a moment, looking ahead, and then looked up to meet Sid’s eyes. 

“It’s not good,” he said again. Sid’s facial expression was so sympathetic and warm that Zhenya felt himself start to tear up, which in turn made his face go hot. He felt so much better now that Sid was here. He had such a soothing and easy energy. 

“Yeah,” Sid said, looking down at him, and then he moved to lay fully on top of Zhenya, pressing him into the mattress to give him a full-body, horizontal hug. 

“Oof,” Zhenya let out a puff of breath, surprised and delighted. Sid was so heavy. He reached to move his book onto the nightstand. Sid lay his head down on Zhenya’s chest where his book had been. 

Zhenya was pressed into the mattress from his chest down to his legs. The relentless parade of his despairing thoughts was finally paused for a few quiet moments. 

He cautiously brought his hands up to wrap around Sid’s waist. “Sid, I want say. Good job. I’m know you play good and go far.” 

“Thanks, G,” Sid said, turning his head to press his mouth to Zhenya’s T-shirt-covered chest. Zhenya tightened his arms around Sid for a moment in response to the brief, sweet pressure. 

“I really wanted to come see you,” Sid said. “I think you’re the best, I want to be here for you. If you want to, you can tell me. You can talk to me.” 

Zhneya took a deep breath, slightly raising and lowering Sid in the process. He repositioned his hands to lay open on Sid’s strong back. And, in Russian, he began talking, trying to describe the magnitude of his disappointment. It didn’t take long. He had lost before. He would win and lose big games again. That thought wasn’t much help to him now, but he was already feeling a little better. Still mad, still sad, but better. And it was still the night of his team’s elimination. It would only improve with time. 

Sid sighed, said “Yeah,” again. He repositioned his head, a little, getting more comfortable. 

They were finally alone, now, and had a chance to talk. Radulov would be back at some point, maybe sometime soon, and he had to ask. He had to try to say what was real. 

“Sid, why you kiss?” He asked. And then, wanting to make himself clear and not give Sid any room for doubt, he added, “I like, I want.” A really cool and chill understatement. He liked Sid so much. “But I’m be so surprised,” he said. That wasn’t quite right, though. His crush had lasted so long and gotten so strong because sometimes he felt like it wasn’t completely without hope of reciprocation. 

Sid raised his head and looked at Zhenya for a moment, smiling and fond, his nose looking huge from this angle. He leaned in to press his mouth to Zhenya’s, and then rolled off to the side to cover his face with his hands, groaning a little. 

That didn’t sound good. 

Zhenya sat up, turned towards Sid to cross his legs beneath him. Reached out to squeeze Sid’s arm, waited. 

Sid gave another short and sort of funny groan, and moved to sit up, too, leaning against the headboard. “Geno, I had been thinking about it so much. I was so happy that you kissed me back. You wouldn’t believe how happy. But I got so freaked out. I really don’t know how this would work. I don’t know what you want.” Sid was looking down at his lap. 

It sounded like Sid had been swimming around in a similar whirlpool of uncertainty and doubt. Zhenya was overwhelmed with empathy. 

“Sid, I’m want you,” he said. Maybe that was a little strong. “I’m, uh. I want to try with you.” He didn’t want a one-off hookup, or even something longer-term if it was without feelings. “I’m know you so long, I’m think you’re best. Best captain, best friend. I like you,” he said, starting to smile. He hoped Sid understood what he was trying to say. “We try. We figure out together.” That was all Zhenya wanted. That, and to win the Cup this year, and to win gold in four years. That was pretty much all of it. 

“I like you, too,” Sid said, smiling back. Zhenya leaned in to cup his jaw in his hand and kiss him. Sid laughed, a little. “I really like you,” he said, and he leaned in to kiss Zhenya back. 

Some excellent primary school-level communication. Zhenya was exceedingly proud of both of them. Each simple confession and chaste kiss filled him with a startling joy. His earlier black cloud of a mood had dissipated; the sun had come out, warming him through to his core. He felt so lucky. Soon they would both be back in Pittsburgh, Sid probably satisfied and victorious, and they would play together again. They would be together. Zhenya hoped so much that would be true. 

They both turned to listen to some voices coming from outside, becoming louder as they passed by Zhenya’s door and then quieting again. 

“We didn’t time all of this all that well, huh,” Sid said, smiling at Zhenya. 

That was true. But better now than never. “Sid, play hard. I’m root for you. You come over when we both back in Pittsburgh.” Finally, they would have some privacy. Zhenya couldn’t wait. “Play hard, try hard, and I see you soon.” 

Sid reached out to take Zhenya’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “I’ll try. I’ll see you then. Sounds good to me.” 

He withdrew his hand, and began to pull his quarter-zip up and over his head. “You should take this,” he said, handing it over to Zhenya. He had a long-sleeved black T-shirt on underneath. “It’s warm. It’s yours.” 

Zhenya looked down at the grey sweatshirt, thumbed the small Team Canada logo on the chest. It was still warm from Sid’s body heat. He pulled it over his head, put his arms through the sleeves. It fit perfectly. Sid was grinning at him, crooked and genuine. “Thanks, Sid,” he said. “Okay, you go. Go celebrate, get ready for next game.” 

Sid leaned in to kiss Zhenya’s cheek, and then his mouth. He gave Zhenya an awkward hug as they both were still sitting on the bed. Zhenya squeezed back as hard as he could. “Okay,” Sid said. “I, uh, okay. See you in Pittsburgh.” 

Zhenya watched Sid go, zipping his new pullover up to his chin. Sid was lingering by the door, smiling at him. “Bye, Sid,” Zhenya said. He liked Sid so much. Sid was thoughtful, he bothered with things. Dorky, sweet, hard-working. The man of his dreams. Flower knew, maybe. More or less. It was going to be okay. There could be a way forward for them. 

“Okay. Bye,” Sid said, and left, closing the door behind him. Zhenya wondered how many Team Russia players he would have to pass on his way out. Oh well, everyone knew that he and Sid were good friends. 

Zhenya looked down at his arms, encased in grey fleece. He was still going to be upset about the tournament for a while, probably. But there was so much to look forward to in his life. Not long from now, Zhenya would in the room with his team in a Penguins sweater, with the A on his chest. He and Sid would do their handshake, and he would follow Sid out towards the ice. He would press his pendants to his lips, and watch Sid make the sign of the cross. And they would play together, one shift after another. Hopefully for a long time.


End file.
